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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240331">Nature of Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasminepeony14/pseuds/jasminepeony14'>jasminepeony14</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Divine Keys [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:54:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,738</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasminepeony14/pseuds/jasminepeony14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Nature of the Beast"</p>
<p>With Magnus safely returned to home, Simon hopes life will return to normal at O'Keefe Place, the rivals for Leilani's attention his only worry. But the arrival of Joshua Begay's sister sends him, Leilani, and their friends chasing after Keren Fenslage, who is heir to a dark and destructive power that, if revived, could bring about the end to all Fae lands.  Meanwhile, the shadow of Valentine still lurks, and if all goes according to his plan, even heaven is going to need help. </p>
<p>*If you haven't read Nature of the Beast, you should read it first before proceeding with this fic.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clary Fray/Jace Wayland, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Simon Lewis/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Divine Keys [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664917</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part 1, Prologue: Word of Warning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Part One: The Dream of Man</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Chaos was the law of nature.  Order was the dream of man.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Henry Adams</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Prologue: A Word of Warning</p><p> </p><p>               “You must be mistaken,” the Seelie Queen dismissed resolutely.  “That is impossible.”</p><p>               “No, your Majesty, I am afraid I am not.  The Crow is afoot,” Cian refuted, his voice low and gravelly.  On bended knee, he kept his head bowed, his mane of gray tumbling over his rail thin shoulder and dusting the dirt below. </p><p>              “The Crow lives to serve the Morrigan,” the Queen insisted.  “And the Morrigan is no more.”</p><p>             “There is another that the Crow serves.”</p><p>             “The Adair?  Irrelevant.  The Morrigan perished without one, and that was a millennia ago.  If there had been an Adair, she would have longed reached maturity by now.”</p><p>              “Forgive me, your Majesty, but please remember that time never held sway over the Morrigan, and it was well within her power to circumvent it.”</p><p>              As much as she loathed to admit it, the Queen knew Cian was right.  Time had been nothing but water and air to the Morrigan—pliable and easy to travel through.  How very like the Morrigan, too, to a plant a seed of vengeance a thousand years from when the grievance had been incurred.  How very much like her to wait until the Queen had long forgotten to be watchful and afraid.</p><p>              Still, she was not prepared to accept the possibility that the follies of her youth were finally bearing their ill-begotten fruit.</p><p>             “Aqila would never have let the Crow out of its cage,” she tried to reason.  “She made a vow.”</p><p>             “…As did you, Your Majesty,” Cian murmured. He did not dare to finish, for the insolence would have cost him his wizened head, and the Queen could complete the picture he was painting on her own.  She had made a vow in turn to Aqila.   And then, when it had come time to make good, she had delightedly danced her way out of it.  Reneging had been easy and honoring her word too troublesome. After all, what could Aqila, as old and deprecate as she was, do to her? Aqila was a fading night, her a rising sun—why she should heed a wavering flame fast running out of wick?</p><p>                Clearly, the Queen may have underestimated the old crone’s vigor for spite.</p><p>                “If…” she managed to push through a burgeoning sigh, “…if there is an Adair, then the Crow will have her searching for the emblems of her queendom.   She must never find them.  Never.”</p><p>               Cian stooped even lower as his ancient head bobbed in consensus.</p><p>               “As you know, your Majesty, one is in the protection of our court.  The other is in the possession of the Unseelie Court.  I will dispatch an envoy immediately—”</p><p>               “No,” the Queen hissed, and Cian’s chin jerked up.  A cloudy film dulled each of his once brilliant brown eyes, but she knew better than to think him blind.</p><p>               “With all due respect, Your Majesty—”</p><p>                “It is not like before,” she expounded tersely.  “The Unseelie King cannot be counted among our allies, let alone our friends.  Who is to say that he would not join hands with the Adair?  He desires our destruction as much as she must.”</p><p>                Agonizingly slowly, Cian gripped the worn, knobby wood of his long, thin staff and heaved himself to his feet before leaning his unsubstantial weight against it.</p><p>                “Upon her death,” he says calmly, “the Morrigan swore to reduce all Fae courts to ash and ice.  Even if it were to further her goal, the Adair will not ally herself with one nor pretend to.  She will avenge Avalon on her own or not at all. Moreover, if she becomes aware of the fractions between our courts, she will undoubtedly use it to her advantage.  Exploiting the smallest of cracks is in the Avalon blood.  We must put aside our disputes and stand together—as we did a millennia ago—or else we will fall one by one.”</p><p>                “So, what would you have me do?” she queried as she straightened on her throne.  “The King will seek his own gain, as he always does, and Aquila hasn’t surfaced for centuries.  Besides, if she released the Crow, then I cannot imagine she cares what befalls our courts.  For all the Spirits know, <em>her</em> court is already ash and ice.”</p><p>                “We should not assume that Aquila freed the Crow of her own accord,” Cian advised.  “The Crow is just as crafty as its mistress, its song seductive.  There are any number ways it could have escaped.  We should find Aquila’s court, or what remains of it, and renew our alliance.  Together, you and she will have leverage against the King and can persuade him to stand with you.  Aquila resents us, yes, but she puts the welfare of her people above all else, and she is wise enough to realize that the resurrection of Avalon is the downfall of us all.”</p><p>                …He was right again.  Of course, the old fool was right again. Even if the Adair had only half the power her mother had possessed, she could still lay waste to the Seelie lands if she found a way in, and she would strike the Queen down in the very chair she sat now, just as how the Queen had slayed her mother.  The only difference would be that the Adair would not make the same mistake as she had. Once drawing her weapon, she would not leave a single breath behind in the Queen’s body.  There would be no word of warning.</p><p>                A thousand years later, the Seelie Queen could still hear the Morrigan’s dying purr dripping from her blood red lips.</p><p>                “You think you’ve won, dear cousin?  Poor thing…you do not realize that the war is far from over.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter One: In the Dead of Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     </p><p> </p><p>                The autumn night looked good on Shangri-la.  The ivy vines that weaved across its store front had ripened to a rich mustard that glowed in the low lantern illuminating the doorway, and, just as gold had greeted him, gold ushered Simon in, the boughs of canary yellow maple leaves curving around and over the doorframe’s interior like towering, bowing butlers.  A few of their star-shaped leaves fell in a twirling glide and grazed his cheeks before fluttering away on an unseen, unfelt gale that ever kept them from meeting the café-styled tables or a patron’s teacup. Instead, they surged and swooped up into the canopy of crimson oak and fire-orange aspen foliage carpeting the ceiling, thereby concealing the normally exposed beams. </p><p>                Meanwhile, below, mums of every autumnal shade adorned each table in carefully curated arrangements.  They were the faintly scented kind, and the earthy scent of the transitioning season thickened the air, mixing with the cinnamon and nutmeg fragrances that were drifting from the steaming pots of cider that sat on a stove behind the bar.  And it was there, leaning over one of the brass pots, Leilani stood, her honey bronze face a stunning portrait of befuddlement.</p><p>                “Did it happen again?” Simon chuckled by way of greeting as he leaned his folded arms against the bar top.</p><p>                “Third time tonight!” she cried.  She tapped the belly of the pot with a long, wood-handled ladle, and it sang with a hollow ring.  Sighing, she spun on the ball of her foot to meet his amused gaze, the folds of her marigold-brown gown rustling as she did.</p><p>                “They paid,” she went on exasperatedly, “and tipped very generously, and I’m thankful for that, but when they just take it without putting in an order—well, it makes it hard to plan ahead, and, truthfully, I am finding it a little difficult to keep with in-house orders as it as.”</p><p>                “Popularity has its price, I guess,” Simon mused, unable to keep his smile from broadening. </p><p>                Leilani had become <em>very </em>popular, specifically with the warlock set, who had determined that despite not being one of them, Leilani was officially one of theirs.  Simon supposed that could be chalked up to a combination of factors but most significantly her connection to Magnus Bane.  She had brought their illustrious leader back to them, and that was a debt they had initially sought to repay with a one-time visit to her tea shop.</p><p>                But then they had met her, seen her amber-violet eyes up close as she prepared and poured their tea, and ended coming back.  Again.  And again.  Inevitably, New York’s warlocks had realized that Leilani’s teas themselves were tantalizingly tasty, and Shangri-la became a warlock hot spot seemingly overnight, to the point that warlocks who did not have time to visit the shop in person had started summoning tea straight from the decanter.  They compensated her, of course, but the rapidly disappearing pots of fresh brew left her adorably flustered.</p><p>                “You could always ask Magnus to intervene,” Simon pointed out.  “He may not be High Warlock of Brooklyn anymore, but he’s still got plenty of weight to throw around.”</p><p>                 Indeed, Magnus had lost none of his political influence among the Children of Lilith.   Upon his return from weeks of a harrowing absence, Magnus had been promptly offered his old position back, but he had politely turned down the title, perhaps wary of stirring up any animosity with his successor, Lorenzo Rey, who was already rather sore that Leilani had a clear preference for his long-standing rival, and creating unnecessary political strife for their people.  The official reason, however, had been framed less altruistically.</p><p>                “I’ve been High Warlock for nearly a century,” Magnus had waved off.  “It’s taxing and thankless.  If Lorenzo wants to take it on, let him.  I am going to have some <em>fun</em> now—I am a newlywed after all.”</p><p>              And it was that newlywed bliss Leilani had since been reluctant to intrude upon.</p><p>            “Oh no,” she quickly demurred.  “He and Alec just got back from Granada.  I couldn’t possibly bother him over such a silly little thing.  If I really wanted to, I could stop them on my own, but if I did that, then no one would be able to use magic in here, and Shangri-la is supposed to be a welcoming place, not a stifling one.”</p><p>             As her shoulders rose and sagged with another sigh, Simon hoped she didn’t see the awe and trepidation that skated speedily across his face.  It was so easy to forget just how powerful she was.  With a little more than a thought, she could render all magic, warlock <em>and</em> Fae, utterly useless.  Her patrons kept their powers only at her leisure and were fortunate—very, very fortunate—to count her as a friend.</p><p>            As was Simon. </p><p>            And, perhaps, he would soon be privileged enough to have more to treasure than just her friendship.</p><p>           “Are we still on for tonight?” he asked as coolly as he could manage.  Leilani’s raspberry lips spread wide.</p><p>           “Yes!” she chirped excitedly over the light clap of her hands.  “It’s been so long since I have been to a formal restaurant. With everyone at O’Keefe having completely different diet needs, it’s so hard to find a place we all agree on.”  Her smile faltered.   “They will have something for you too, right?”</p><p>             “Yeah,” Simon confirmed assuredly. “Magnus says this place carters especially to Downworlders and has all kinds of delicacies for every folk.  From the sound of it, the only one of us they couldn’t feed is Brielle.”</p><p>              That was of no consequence, though, considering that no other O’Keefe Place resident would be in attendance.  It would be just him and Leilani, or, as their house mates had said,</p><p>
  <em>               SimonandLeilani are going on a date.</em>
</p><p>               Simon found he rather liked their names strung together in a singular note.</p><p>
  <em>              SimonandLeilani.</em>
</p><p>               “Is she still upset?” Leilani was asking, gently recalling Simon’s focus. </p><p>               “When isn’t Brielle upset?” he snorted.</p><p>                “I mean about Ruth,” Leilani clarified as she turned back to the empty pot.  Raising her right hand above her head, she twirled her wrist, her fingers long and poised, and a beguiled bough began to descend from the ceiling, emerging out of the leafy, golden fresco a bare yet beautiful brown.  Leilani twirled her wrist again, and the bough sprouted buds that quickly unfurled into bright green leaves and pinkish white blooms, an odd moment of spring in an autumnal space.  One last twirl, and the flowers wilted and broke apart, giving way to apples that swelled and ripened in a blink, reaching Leilani’s open palm as perfectly round, deliciously red specimens of fruit.</p><p>                 “Yeah,” Simon replied while Leilani began to pick the apples, each of their stems breaking in a soft snap.  “She is still not thrilled about Joshua Begay’s sister living down the hall.”</p><p>                 “Ruth is not her brother,” Leilani pointed out.</p><p>                  “No, but Joshua did send her to tell us to clean up his mess,” Simon countered.  “To stop whatever eldritch monster he released into the world.  As far as Brielle is concerned, it’s his problem to fix, and dumping it on us is him flipping the bird.  And Ruth is the stand-in for his middle finger.”</p><p>                  “He <em>did </em>try to fix it,” Leilani said, “but he failed.  Ruth didn’t lie about that.  She hasn’t lied about anything.  She came to us for help, because whatever force Joshua released, it will affect us all.”</p><p>                “Just because Ruth believes what Joshua told her doesn’t make what he said true.”</p><p>                Simon had nothing against Ruth—she seemed pleasant enough, kind and eager to be of use—but she was also so painfully out of her depth.  Sighted as she was, she was still a mundane tiptoeing foolishly into the Downworld, where mortal things melted away as quickly and quietly as snowflakes in the summer sun. </p><p>                Simon knew that firsthand.</p><p>                Plus, frankly, Simon wasn’t sure if she was exceptionally brave or exceptionally dim, because you had to be one or the other to willingly move into a boarding house where all the tenants could kill you without much effort.  If she was the latter, then Joshua probably had pulled the wool over her eyes on the regular.</p><p>                “Joshua…,” Leilani murmured, turning back around again to Simon, “he lied a lot when he lived at O’Keefe Place.  It was enough that I didn’t like being in the same room as him—it hurt my ears too much to listen to him….except when he talked about Ruth.  He mentioned her once to me, and it was the one and only time I could stand to stay and listen to him.  She is special to him. “</p><p>                Sacred—that was the word Joshua had used to describe his sister.  <em>My sister is sacred to me</em>. He, having told one lie too many, hadn’t been believed at that time, but Leilani was now validating the truth of his proclamation, confirming that there was indeed one person Joshua put before himself. </p><p>               “Okay,” Simon conceded.  “But no one is going to convince Brielle tonight that Ruth isn’t a ticking time bomb.”</p><p>               Exhaling, Leilani nodded her agreement.</p><p>                “I know.  I’m just worried about her, I guess.  This time of year is always tough for her.  And the closer to we get to the first frost, the tougher it gets.”</p><p>                 “What is about the first frost for her?”  Simon hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud.  At O’Keefe Place, the past was best left in the past, so no one went digging for it.  But, a couple weeks ago, Simon’s and Leilani’s pasts had come looking for them, and their housemates had been caught in the crosshairs.  Some had even been made to reckon with their own history.  Jang-mi had exacted vengeance against the trapper clan had murdered her entire family, and Noelle had a chance encounter with the roots she had thought long lost.</p><p>                 The divide had been crossed, and a part of Simon felt that granted him permission to venture into once forbidden territory.  And Leilani, slowly pivoting back to her apples, let him pass.</p><p>                 “The first frost came,” she said mutedly, “on the day she died.”</p><p> </p><p>                 The last thing Brielle’s prey ever saw was not her face.  It was not her fangs or her hell-black eyes or her antlers and their skeletal shadow.  No, the last thing they ever saw was themselves—themselves as their victims had seen them.  They were made to stare down the sin that earned them their damnation.  They were always horrified by what they saw and died screaming at the top of their lungs.  Every last one.</p><p>                 So singularly identical were their deaths that she never bothered learning their names.  Never gave them the dignity of being special.  Thus, it was laughable that the slip of a shadowhunter before her now would think she would recall one from the long, long list by name alone.</p><p>               “Horace Dearborn!” the girl screeched.  “My father!  You killed him!”</p><p>               “You’ll to be more specific, seraph <em>halfling</em>,” Brielle hissed. </p><p>                The girl, pale and round-cheeked with a thick braid of blonde-brown hair falling over her shoulder, glowered murderously, just as Brielle knew she would.  Shadowhunters were all too easy to rile up—all it took was to insult their oh-so precious, blessed blood—and Brielle wanted this girl riled.  She wanted the impertinent heaven spawn to feel an ounce of the fury she felt.</p><p>                How <em>dare </em>this mortal stand in her way?  How dare she brandish a blade and keep Brielle from her prey?</p><p>                 “Cut the act!” the girl screeched.  “Don’t pretend you don’t know—”</p><p>                 “Maybe your companions can clue me in,” Brielle interrupted, a dagger grin slicing viciously across her face.  “The four hiding in the trees behind me.  You shadowhunters are never half as sneaky as you think you are, and I don’t know why you bother dressing in all black all the time.  Your smell gives you up a hundred yards away.”</p><p>                  The girl’s glare deepened as the crack and crunch of dry twigs and dead leaves resonated behind Brielle, promptly followed by the sound of four sets of booted feet trudging through the browning park grass.  One of them, a boy possessing floppy brown waves and a lazy smile, braved a step into Brielle’s eyesight, a sword angled cautiously in the general direction of her heart.</p><p>                 Or, rather, where her heart would’ve been if she had one.</p><p>                 “I think she’s completely serious, Zara,” he told the girl.  “She really doesn’t know who you’re talking about.”</p><p>                  “<em>Bullshit</em>!” Zara yelled, her throat tight. “How do you kill seven men and not remember?”</p><p>                  “Ah,” Brielle murmured, cocking her head.  “You mean that lovely smorgasbord at the Institute.  Why didn’t you say so?”</p><p>                   Zara blinked.</p><p>                  “S-smorgasbord?” she echoed, her pale face going stark white in a shard of moonlight.  “You mean…you…you—”</p><p>                  “Ate them,” Brielle purred remorselessly.  “I <em>ate </em>them.  One of them was your father, you said? What a shame that I didn’t come across him before he procreated.  The last thing the world needed was <em>more</em> of him.”</p><p>                 The howl was instantaneous—a lightning strike igniting—and Zara was charging.  So were the others, fast and swift with their angelic grace, the drum of pounding feet coming at Brielle from all sides.  Their blades swept up, surged, swung—</p><p>                 --And shattered.  Adamas rained in sharp, silvery hail as the shadowhunters started and scuttled back, all save Zara, too stunned and too furious to move quickly enough to avoid Brielle’s hand, which shot out and clamped around Zara's neck like a viper’s fangs. She rasped out a strangled croak as Brielle lifted her off her feet, and her fingers futilely scrambled to dislodge Brielle’s iron grip.</p><p>                  “Do you know why mundanes,” Brielle drawled, “come to this park in the dead of night?  To do very bad things to very innocent people, usually young girls…like the young girl your father and his friends did a very bad thing to.”</p><p>                   “M—my fa- fa-,” Zara gasped.  Brielle squeezed harder, crimson drops staining her fingertips as her nails broke skin.</p><p>                   “It doesn’t matter that she was a werewolf,” Brielle continued.  “She was still innocent, and he did a bad thing to her.  I eat men—and women—who do bad things to innocent people.  Men like your father.  And men like the man I followed here until <em>you</em>—” More blood dripped as Brielle squeezed even tighter, her baby blue eyes going nightmare black, her voice deepening to a ghastly, ghostly hum.  “—got in the way.  You’ll have to pay for that.”</p><p>                  “But not with her life!”</p><p>                   The cry burst out of the trees ahead, quickly followed by a golden-haired, strong-jawed shadowhunter who Brielle recognized with a leisurely blink.</p><p>                    “Hello, Goldilocks,” she greeted Jace Herondale. “And, oh look, you brought grown-ups.”  A small crowd had followed him into the clearing, a slim Asian woman in a crisp black suit leading the pack.</p><p>                     “Hello, Ms. Weathers,” the woman said as she stopped at a safe distance away and folded her hands primly against her pencil skirt.  “I am Jia Penhallow, the shadowhunter Consul.  You must forgive young Ms. Dearborn.  She is grieving—”</p><p>                     “I do not forgive,” Brielle interjected, her voice still the tone of the underworld, “and I do not pity.  I am a Deer Woman, which you know.  And you also know what your law says about what happens to those who interrupt my hunt.”</p><p>                      “What law?” the boy with wavy brown locks demanded. “What she is talking about—”</p><p>                       “Be quiet, Mr. Villalobos,” Penhallow ordered.</p><p>                     “Let him talk,” Brielle urged.  “His life is <em>mine</em>.  He should at least know why.”</p><p>                      “There is another way the law says they can pay,” Jace insisted urgently. Brielle let loose a cackling, frigid laugh.</p><p>                      “Compensation?” she cried.  “You’re offering compensation?  Do you even know what that entails?  There are five of them.  That means—”</p><p>                      “—We must offer five of our own blood,” Penhallow finished, “who are deserving of being your prey.”</p><p>                      A beat of heavy, brooding silence, and then the black shrouding Brielle’s eyes began to dissipate.</p><p>                      “You have until the first frost,” she said evenly. </p><p>                      “The first frost? But there is no knowing when that could be!” Penhallow objected.  “It could be as soon as tomorrow night!”  Brielle simply gave a one-shouldered shrug.  The deadline was unfair perhaps, but she was already being more than generous by not ripping five hearts out on the spot as was her right.  As shadowhunters said themselves, “The Law is hard, but it is the Law.”</p><p>                     Besides, she loathed that first sign of winter and needed something to look forward to.</p><p>                    “Then you better hurry,” she suggested, “because if you fail to bring me what I am owed by the time the first frost comes, I will come to <em>collect</em>.”</p><p>                    With that, she released the Nephilim girl, who collapsed into a gasping, heaving heap. </p><p>                   “You,” Zara seethed amid her gags, “You beast—”  She fumbled her words as Jace sprung forward, grasped her by the forearm, and pulled her up.</p><p>                   “Get going, Zara,” he advised lowly.  “Before she changes her mind.”  Zara’s hazel eyes flashed the shade of wrath, and she wrenched open her mouth, probably to finish the insult that would’ve changed Brielle’s mind, but Jace shoved her toward Penhallow, who, along with her entourage, immediately herded Zara, Villalobos, and the other three fools away into the dark of the trees.</p><p>                    “I’m sorry,” Jace said once they were gone.  He ran his fingers anxiously through his annoyingly perfectly slicked back hair.  “I warned Zara to let it go or that she would ruin her father’s memory once and for all.  She didn’t listen.”</p><p>                     “I don’t care, Goldilocks,” Brielle sighed, her voice at last regaining its human timbre, “as long as I am brought what I am owed.  It is bad enough that I am forced to share a home with a mundane who has traitor blood in her veins, but now, it seems, I can’t even hunt in peace.”</p><p>                     She turned to leave, casting out her senses to ferret out the lowlifes who might still be lingering in the park’s cover, when Jace called out again.</p><p>                     “Wait!” he pleaded.</p><p>                     “What?” she growled.  “I am still <em>hungry</em>, and we just went over what happens to people who prevent me from satiating my appetite.”</p><p>                       “I know,” Jace said seriously, “and I am sorry.  Trust me, I would’ve gone to Simon with this, but I hear from Magnus that he and Leilani are little busy tonight, and this couldn’t wait.”</p><p>                     Groaning, Brielle crossed her arms impatiently.</p><p>                     “Fine.  What exactly couldn’t wait?”</p><p>                      “Last night, Clary and I were following up on a tip about Valentine’s whereabouts,” he rushed to explain, “and we found his laboratory.  We think it’s probably where Magnus was held.”</p><p>                    “Still waiting for the part where I care,” Brielle snapped.</p><p>                      “Magnus is not the only one Valentine was experimenting on.”  Rotating his body away from Brielle, Jace reached out a gingerly beckoning hand.  “You can come out now.  It’s okay.  I promise she’s not as scary as she looks.”</p><p>                     Brielle flicked her gaze at the large oak that Jace was gesturing towards and realized for the first time that, behind the substantial girth of the oak’s trunk, the shadows ebbed and flowed at the behest of a faint, wavering light.</p><p>                   “It’s okay,” Jace assured again.  “It’s safe.”</p><p>                    Then, the light burgeoned as a boy slowly inched from behind and around the oak.  He was young, sixteen at the oldest, and astoundingly beautiful with feminine features that could best any Pre-Raphaelite beauty.  His tussled honey blonde hair fell in a soft curl into his light, jade green eyes, the shade of which prettily complimented his milk white skin.  Yet, the crowning jewel of his beauty was the fiercely glowing plumage that lined the curve of his arms from wrist to shoulders, feathers of bejeweled tangerine.  He crept out a little further, and Brielle’s breath caught as magnificent tail feathers followed after him, stretching out over the park grass and mulch like the rays of the rising sun.</p><p><br/>                “Holy shit, Goldilocks,” Brielle whispered.  “You found a firebird.”</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Part I, Chapter 2: The Right of Mothers</h2></a>
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    <p>             Every year, for the past five, when her housemates would crowd around her after her return from her autumnal, month-long sojourn to the sea, Noelle would tell the same lie.</p><p>              “Thirty days of raw fish,” she would dismiss with a wave of a hand.  “Not exactly the stuff of odysseys.”</p><p>               Technically, it was true, because, as one of the Fair Folk, Noelle was incapable of lying outright.  But it was also a lie implied due to the assumptions she didn’t correct. </p><p>               “That explains the mackerel breath,” Samir would inevitably joke, and she would glare at him and throw the nearest thing in reach—usually a glass of lemonade—at his smirk.</p><p>              But the truth was Noelle never bothered hunting down <em>small</em> fish.  It felt too unsportsmanlike—she was far faster and so much stronger to the point she could yawn and catch one in her open mouth without ever meaning to.  So, no, she didn’t bother with the small fish.  Instead, she picked on those her own size:</p><p>             Great white sharks.  Tiger sharks. Basking sharks.  Bull sharks.  Moray eels every now and then.  Even the odd barracuda foolish to enough to wander so far north.  But mostly sharks.  They too, though, seemed a poor match-up against the sheer brute force that was herself.  She was not being self-important or vain in thinking so. It was a fact that on land she was a pernicious song, seducing, luring souls to a maniac, bloody end—but in the sea?</p><p>            In the sea, she was a merely monster, an arsenal of talons and teeth at her disposal.  They never saw her coming, just a scintillating bolt of yellow fringed in marigold and crimson before the dark sank in.  And, as a monster, she was in good company.  That was the second lie folded into the first—the implication that her time beneath the Atlantic waves passed without event or excitement.  Honestly, however, while lonely, she was never alone.  There was more to the sea than mundane marine life, for it was dark and deep and the perfect place for demons to lurk and creep.</p><p>             Like the one that was at her back now.  Noelle wasn’t surprised to catch the nauseating scent drifting surreptitiously by.  Mealtimes always attracted unwanted dinner guests, the blood beckoning the hell beasts like a lighthouse’s beacon calling out to boats on the distant horizon.  She refused to be rushed through the last bites of her meal and continued to savor the shark fin in her bloody fingers one morsel at a time.  The demon wasn’t interested in the remaining meat of her kill anyway, because demons didn’t bother with fish at all.</p><p>              “Do you really not fear me, little Fae?” a voice came rolling in a watery rumble, “or are you too dazed by your full belly to realize you’re eating your last meal?”</p><p>             Swallowing down the final bite, Noelle began to suck her fingers clean, pulling each wetly through her rounded lips.</p><p>            “Why should I fear those unable to hunt for themselves?” Noelle wondered aloud between leisurely licks.  “Tell me, was your last meal one you earned or one that some human handfed to you like a pet?”</p><p>              Immediately, the water around her turned acidic and thick with the stench of sulfur.  Rolling her eyes, Noelle uncurled her tail from around the rock where she had been perched and swam up, stretching her fin out into a wide, feathery fan.</p><p>             “I take it was the latter,” she mused, “given your temper tantrum just now. Really, thousands of years old and still acting like a pup suckling at Lilith’s teat.  No wonder you don’t show your face above the surface anymore.  The shadowhunters wouldn’t even bother unsheathing their swords. They would just <em>laugh</em> you back into the abyss.”</p><p>               A sonic screech reverberated, a tsunami of sound sending seaweed streaming flat against the sea floor, but Noelle flapped her fin, and she shot upward, easily evading the shadow that careened and crashed into the rock below.  Shards and barnacles went flying as the hellion shook free of debris, and as the dust cleared, its fiery, oily green-black eyes raged up at Noelle.  Yet, her lips merely curled back in disgust.</p><p>              They were hideous beasts, Cetus demons, their enormous heads mangy, rotting wolf skulls, their lower halves serpentine and bloated.  They were slothful too, and in the time of antiquity they had terrorized the early humans into offering them regular living sacrifices to keep them from using their girth to summon forth devastating tidal waves.  But those glory days were long gone, and they weren’t half the leviathans they used to be.  At the most, they were overgrown scavengers slithering about the ocean floor hoping to catch the lone Fae off guard.</p><p>                But, down here, Noelle was never not on guard.  Her senses were too finely tuned to the rhythm and scent of the sea, and she knew of every degree of change from temperature to taste.  It was the Cetus demon’s mistake for thinking her a helpless, little mermaid.</p><p>                It would be its last mistake in this lifetime.</p><p>                Flexing her fingers, Noelle readied to descend, the muscles of her tail contracting, building up energy as swiftly as cocking a gun, but just as she was about to pull the trigger, she heard it, a whistling sound, low and forceful, barreling through the water.  Then the sound took form as a long, bone-white harpoon sailing out of the blue and directly into the space between those horrific, putrid eyes.</p><p>                With a wail, the Cetus demon rapidly folded in on itself over and over until it was gone, banished to the nothingness between worlds, leaving only the white-handled spear protruding from the sand.</p><p>                Slowly, Noelle lifted her eyes to the blue expanse before her, and she did not have to wait long.  He emerged as a broad, powerful silhouette, growing more solid the closer he drew, his tail becoming a stunning shade of scarlet glazed over with pearlescent cerulean.  Freedom, Noelle decided, had done him wonders in the weeks she had last seen him.  In the Fenslages’ prison tank, he had been a handsome specimen, but there had also been a lean, hardened look to him, like the years of captivity had worn him down to his most basic, primal self.  But he had since filled back out, and, before Noelle, he was tall, dark, and regal.</p><p>                “Zeena,” the male selkie said, his timbre a velvety baritone, not unlike the gentle rush of waves upon beach rocks. His eyes were a deep, yearning maple.</p><p>                Noelle swallowed as she crossed her arms and hugged them close to her chest.</p><p>                “…That’s my name, isn’t?” she said softly, glancing away.  “The one you gave me when I was born.” </p><p>                Because this male was her father, Kamau.  Felix had told her as much the night before she had departed.  He had seen into the male’s mind the day they had freed him and had seen that truth laid stark and forthright.</p><p>                Gently, Kamau’s fingers touched the bottom of her chin and tipped her head up.</p><p>                “Naming is the right of mothers,” he replied.  “They alone bear the pain of bringing a child into the world, so they alone bear the joy of bestowing the child’s name.  Your mother gave you the name ‘Zeena.’”</p><p>                Noelle’s lower jaw began to tremble.</p><p>                “…And she’s gone,” she whispered.  “My mother.”  Felix had told her this too.  Her mother had been dead nearly as long as Noelle had been alive, murdered by the same trapper who had enslaved her father.</p><p>                Kamau’s fingers released her chin so they could cup her cheek, his large palm smooth and hot.</p><p>                “Yemaya is not gone,” he assured.  “She and all your ancestors live still in these waters, watching over you.  Protecting you.”</p><p>                The tremble evolved into tears, salty drops that were immediately indistinguishable from the surrounding blue.</p><p>                “...I have so many questions,” she sobbed.</p><p>                “And answers you will have, my child,” Kamau promised fiercely.  “Answers and all that is yours.  Come see your birthplace.  Come meet your people.  Come with me, my daughter.  Come <em>home</em>.”</p><p>                Briefly, Noelle thought about telling him that her home was hundreds of miles away on land in a city near but not a part of the sea, but then she thought saying so would ruin their reunion, tainting it with the knowledge she would one day leave again.</p><p>               So, instead, she nodded through her tears and followed her father into the deep.</p>
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